


Whore

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime during AtS Season 5. Wolfram & Hart steals Angel's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whore

**Author's Note:**

> My muse is frolicing during my furlough days. So this is for my October nekid numbers prompts, which were Connor or Buffy, spell or spellbook, cemetery, prostitution. I wrote it all in one shot, so I hope it makes some sense!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [whore](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/whore)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Whore (1/1)**_  
**Title: **Whore   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angelus   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, angst, language, m/m, Angelus on the loose   
**Summary:** Set sometime during AtS Season 5. Wolfram &amp; Hart steals Angel's soul.  
**Author's Note:** My muse is frolicing during my furlough days. So this is for my October nekid numbers prompts, which were Connor or Buffy, spell or spellbook, cemetery, prostitution. I wrote it all in one shot, so I hope it makes some sense!

**Whore**

 

Spike licked his lips nervously and set the pile of bills on the desk. Angelus kept him waiting for a moment as he read a document and then signed it with a flourish. Then he poked distastefully at the money. “Oh, that’s too bad. Looks like you’re a kinda short tonight, little Willy.”

“Look, I tried. It’s raining and—“

“Shut up! I didn’t ask for your lame excuses. Some folks are gonna be really disappointed with you, I’m afraid.” Angelus didn’t look disappointed at all, actually. In fact, his eyes shone with malevolent glee as he pressed the button that activated the monitor on his desk. He adjusted the monitor slightly so that Spike could see, too. Four bodies slumped in the corners of four separate cells. Each was clothed in tattered, filthy clothing that hung on too-thin frames. This wasn’t the first night Spike had brought back too little. The cells were tiny, and, aside from their ill-dressed occupants, contained only a steel toilet and sink combination. Not even a mattress or a blanket.

While Spike stood impotently by, Angelus picked up a headset from atop his desk and slipped it over his ear. He keyed the switch to turn it on. “Hey, guys,” he said, and four heads snapped up, no doubt to eye the monitors that hung high on the ceiling in each cell. “I’m sorry to say little Willy didn’t meet his quota tonight. No food for you today,” he said cheerfully. The gaunt faces stared back mournfully.

“Angelus, please, they need—“

“Shh! I told you to shut _up_. Do you need a little reminder of how things work?” His finger hovered near another button, the one that would turn on the electric current in the floor of one of the cells. Spike never could work out whether the choice was random, or if there was some order to it he couldn’t quite suss out.

Spike gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“Good,” said Angelus, and moved his hand away. “’Cause we’ve got other fish to fry, haven’t we? You didn’t earn your friends’ suppers tonight but you did earn something else, didn’t you?”

He looked expectantly at Spike and Spike, glaring helplessly back, nodded once.

His grandsire smiled at him and motioned with one finger. “Then come here, Spikey.”

Spike moved woodenly around the enormous desk until he was standing next to Angelus. Angelus pushed his chair back slightly, then checked to make sure the camera was still pointed at him. He looked at Spike expectantly.

Spike swallowed and sucked at his teeth for a moment. Then, with his gaze fixed firmly on the wall behind Angelus’s shoulder, he unbuckled his belt, unfastened his flies, and pushed his jeans down to his thighs.

Angelus’s grin widened. “You watching, boys and girl? Maybe someday I’ll let one of you have a crack at him. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Wes?”

Spike wasn’t looking at the monitor, but he could easily imagine the former Watcher tightening his jaw, flushing with shame and anger.

“Come on, Spikey. I don’t have all day. Got places to go, things to kill.”

Spike closed the remaining space between himself and the larger vampire. Then, wordlessly, he draped himself over Angelus’s spread legs so that his arse was raised high. As he’d been trained to do, he clasped his hands behind his back and hung his head. Angelus shifted slightly beneath him so that the tip of Spike’s flaccid cock brushed against the cold leather of the seat. Two huge hands cupped his cheeks, squeezing gently before spreading them apart so that Spike was exposed to his view and the camera’s.

“Wow. You should see yourself, Spikey. Your poor little hole, all red and swollen.” He moved a hand over so that one of his fingers brushed against the torn and tender flesh. Spike hissed. “How many, William? How many men used your sweet ass tonight?”

“Three,” Spike choked out.

Angelus slapped one cheek, hard, his palm stinging the skin and making Spike involuntarily cry out. Then he spanked him two more times, each time harder than before. He stopped for a moment, then, pinching and caressing, no doubt admiring the incipient bruises.

“And how many used that dirty mouth?”

“Four,” said Spike, and tried unsuccessfully to brace himself for the four hits that followed.

“You stink of them, you know,” Angelus said. “You reek of human spunk and sweat and goddamn souls.” As he said the last word, he rammed his wide, blunt finger deep into Spike’s sphincter.

It didn’t hurt as much as it might have, because Spike was already slick from lube and come and his own blood. In fact, it felt almost good, and when Angelus moved his finger a bit and deliberately pressed against the little bundle of nerves inside, Spike’s cock twitched and began to fill. Spike tried through force of will to keep it from becoming erect, but as always, he wasn’t successful. In fact, Angelus had trained him so well these past months that the mutinous organ became rock-hard very quickly, and almost immediately began leaking precome.

“You like that, don’t you, my little slut?” Angelus purred, stroking gently with just the pad of his finger. “Love to have your greedy hole all nice and full. Right?” He slapped Spike’s sore arse with his free hand.

Spike knew from hard experience there was no point arguing with the git, or trying to deny it. “Yes, Sire,” he said meekly, and Angelus rewarded him with another little scrape against his prostate.

If Spike wiggled his hips only a bit, he’d be able to get some friction against his cock. But he knew if he tried, Angelus would only laugh and pin him down and, most likely, not let him come for days. So with effort he managed to keep still, although he couldn’t suppress a small mewl when Angelus added a second finger and began fucking him a bit faster.

“Oh, don’t look away, Charlie-Boy,” Angelus said into the mic. “This is as much for your benefit as his. Thought you’d want to see him punished, since he failed you again. Or maybe you’re wishing it was your ass I was turning out onto the street.”

Spike was glad he couldn’t see the monitor from this position. He didn’t have to see it, anyhow. Angelus had made him look often enough, forced him to see the expressions on the faces in the cells as Angelus abased him. He knew he’d see disgust and revulsion and horror there. It was better just to stare at the carpet and hope that Angelus was in one of his better moods tonight.

Angelus moved his fingers in and out more quickly, at the same time slapping Spike’s sore arse with his wide palm. The noise of the blows was deafening, and Spike could feel Angelus’s erection poking at him through posh wool trousers. Spike was panting harshly, sometimes gasping from pain or pleasure. He’d already lost track of the difference between the two.

“Beg for it, whore,” growled Angelus.

Immediately, Spike said, “Please, Sire, please fuck me, please….” And he babbled on like that for a while as the beating became even harder and the fucking faster, until he felt his balls draw up tight against himself. “Please, Sire, let me come, please!” Coming without permission was a very bad transgression.

“Have you earned it, boy?” Angelus’s voice was rough with lust.

“No, please, I will, let me, please, Sire, I will,” and on like that until Angelus hit him again, this time so hard he nearly knocked Spike off his lap and, at the same time, he snarled, “Come!”

Spike did, his seed spurting and dribbling onto his grandsire’s poncy chair. He sobbed in mingled relief and humiliation, and he was still crying miserably when Angelus shoved him to the floor.

“Go upstairs and clean your filthy self. When I come up I expect to find you bent over the edge of my bed and waiting for me like the little bitch you are.”

With that, Spike was dismissed. He didn’t look at the monitor or the other vampire as he scrambled to his feet, or as he pulled up his jeans without bothering to fasten them. Wincing, he walked to the elevator and pressed the button.

 

The rain stopped by the next evening and business was brisker. Spike turned a half dozen tricks by midnight. The last bloke had wanted to beat Spike’s arse with a riding crop he had stuffed in the backseat of his car. Spike had charged him double and managed to hide his smirk. Even with the crop, the tosser couldn’t inflict half the pain Angelus could with his hands. Two or three more quick fucks and Spike would have enough to make his quota. Angelus’s prisoners would eat today.

Spike leaned against the wall, one hand holding a cigarette, the thumb of the other tucked under the waistband of his jeans. His trousers were loose—Angelus was underfeeding him as well, for which Spike was profoundly grateful. Angelus had dressed him this evening, and he wore a skintight white vest that was torn at the hem to reveal a strip of pale skin. The nipple rings Angelus made him get were plainly visible through the thin fabric. His trousers hung low on his hips. His hair was gelled into spikes like he’d worn it in the 70’s, and slightly smeared kohl lined his eyes. Angelus had taken his duster away; Spike had no idea where it was, or whether Angelus had had the thing destroyed. Spike looked like the rent boy Angelus had made him.

Angelus didn’t need the money, of course. He had much more than he needed already—the garage full of cars, the fancy penthouse, the bespoke wardrobe. It was only for his own twisted kicks that he’d made Spike sell himself. Lately, Spike hadn’t even minded so much. At least it got him out of that bloody office building for a time, and none of his johns did anything nearly as painful or degrading to him as Angelus did. Besides, if he wasn’t out on the street, Angelus sometimes rented him out to clients, some human, some not, and that was considerably more humiliating than servicing anonymous blokes from the stroll.

And he couldn’t complain. As unbearable as his unlife had become, it was still loads better than the miserable existence Angel’s former friends now led.

A man came sauntering out of the bar down the block. He caught sight of Spike, paused, and then walked toward him. He was tall and beefy, with a beer gut hanging over his tight jeans. He was forty-five or perhaps fifty, his thinning hair streaked heavily with gray, his face creased from too much sun. Spike ignored him until the man stood directly in front of him, looking him up and down appraisingly. He must have liked what he saw, because in a surprisingly high voice, he said, “How much?”

Spike blew out a puff of smoke. “Depends what you’re in the market for, mate.”

“Well, for starters, I want you to call me Daddy. With the accent.”

Spike managed not to roll his eyes. “And?”

“I wanna ride you bareback.”

“Cost you double.” Of course, Spike didn’t really care whether they used a condom or not—disease wasn’t really an issue for him—but it was a good excuse to charge more.

The bloke nodded eagerly. “Fine, fine. So how much?”

“Two hundred.”

The man’s eyes widened a bit. “That’s a lot.”

Spike exhaled again and shifted against the wall in a way that feigned disinterest while showing off the jut of his hip and the skin just above his shaved pubis. “I’m very good at what I do,” he said. He curled his tongue behind his teeth, just so. “Take it or leave it, mate.”

The john licked his lips. “I’ll take it.”

 

Spike breathed a small sigh of relief when Angelus smiled at the stack of cash. “Wiggled your ass nicely tonight, didn’t you, little Willy?”

“Yeah.”

“Earned a little extra, even. Such an enthusiastic whore!” Spike looked down at the floor. “Well, let’s celebrate, shall we?”

He had Spike watch while employees brought bowls of food to the prisoners, and the four of them quickly downed the unappetizing swill. It pained Spike in particular to see Fred like that, poor, delicate little Fred, slurping and licking like a starving dog. When the food was gone, Angelus had blankets given to each of them, and the prisoners clutched the fabric desperately to themselves. Finally, Angelus made them watch while Spike stripped completely and got down on his knees, then sucked Angelus’s thick cock while Angelus brought Spike off with an expensive loafer against his dick. After, Spike had to bow down and lick the shoes clean, and then Angelus sent him up to his flat.

He’d been well tutored in how to proceed when he got there. First he placed his Docs neatly next to the door, then he dropped his dirty clothes in a hamper Angelus kept expressly for that purpose, as if he couldn’t bear to mix his own laundry with Spike’s. Fully nude, he walked into the kitchen, where a thermos with the name “Willy” inscribed on it was set on the counter. He swallowed the contents quickly. He wasn’t permitted to heat his blood, but it still tasted lovely because it was human. Spike didn’t know where Angelus got it, didn’t want to know. He’d refused it in the beginning, of course, but Angelus had only punished him and the prisoners and refused to let him feed on anything else. Finally, hunger won out, as Angelus had known it would.

When the thermos was empty, Spike’s belly wasn’t quite full, but it never was, nowadays. He rinsed out the container and set it beside the sink.

Next, Spike went into the bath, and this bit he really did enjoy. He set the shower as hot as it would go and stepped in. It was the kind with multiple heads, and the stinging water sprayed him from head to toes, sluicing away the scents of alcohol and smoke and blood and sour sweat and bitter semen. Angelus had poncy soap he was meant to use, and he didn’t much fancy the way it made him smell of orange and cinnamon, like a pomander, but the suds were thick and creamy and felt lovely. He took special care to cleanse the crack of his arse and inside his aching sphincter.

Angelus kept a razor for him in the shower, and Spike used it to shave away all his pubic hair. He made certain to get it all—if he got sloppy about it, Angelus would do it for him with a straight razor, and he didn’t much fancy having the bastard that close to home with a blade in his hand.

When he was smooth enough to please his grandsire, Spike took down the bottle of shampoo Angelus wanted him to use. It was berry-scented. Old sod wanted him to smell like a bloody fruit salad. Spike scrubbed all the gel from his hair, which had grown longer than he liked, because Angelus liked to play with his curls and use his hair like reins as he fucked Spike’s mouth.

Fully clean, Spike reluctantly turned off the water, and used his designated towel to dry himself thoroughly. The towel went in his hamper as well. Spike dragged a comb through his hair to tame it a bit.

When he walked into the bedroom, he saw that Angelus had left his collar on top of the chest of drawers. Sighing, he locked the heavy silver chain around his neck. Sometimes Angelus liked him to wear it when he went out as well, but lately he’d been saving it for home. At last, because Angelus had given him no other instructions, Spike curled up naked on the green plaid dog bed that Angelus had had placed in the corner of the room. It wasn’t that bad, actually; the fabric was quite soft and Spike preferred it to being shackled to Angelus’s headboard, which was the usual alternative. There’d been a brief time when he was welcomed in that bed as a lover, and when he’d welcomed being there, but that time was gone.

Refusing to think about either the past or what the future might hold, Spike sank into exhausted, merciful sleep.

 

Spike was fairly certain his leg was broken. It certainly hurt like bloody hell when he put any weight on it. But Angelus hadn’t accepted that as a reason for him to take the night off, even though it was Angelus himself who’d broken it during a fit of temper the night before. Spike wasn’t even the cause of his anger—that had been an unfortunate lawyer who ended up strewn in small chunks across Angelus’s office—but dismembering the attorney hadn’t been enough to stem Angelus’s fury, and Spike had had the misfortune merely to be present.

Crutches didn’t really do much to attract tricks—well, most of them, anyway—so Spike gritted his teeth and limped down the pavement, silently hoping the limb would at least mend straight. He’d chosen a quiet street tonight. There was less trade here, but the johns paid better, and he hoped he could make it to his quota quickly. A tranny named Rosita gave him a little wave as he hobbled by. Her thick makeup did a poor job of covering the bruise that darkened one of her delicate cheeks, and Spike laughed at his urge to save her. He couldn’t even bleeding save himself, could he?

There was a small cemetery in the next block, surrounded by a low stone wall. He sat on the wall, groaning slightly with relief when he put his leg up, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A silver Lexus pulled to a stop in front of him and the passenger side window went down. A middle-aged man peered at him. “Little old for this, aren’t you?” he asked.

Spike chuckled. “You’ve no idea. But age means experience, mate.” He raised an eyebrow.

The man seemed to think it over, then Spike heard the small snick of the door unlocking. He heaved himself to his feet and hoped that his shuffle looked more sexy than pained. He pulled the door open and slid inside. The interior smelled of leather, which made Spike miss his duster.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Fifty to suck me.”

“A hundred and I guarantee you the best blowjob you’ve ever had.” He smiled. “Money back guarantee.”

The man seemed to decide he had nothing to lose. He shifted in his seat so he could pull out his wallet, and then he handed Spike a pair of crisp fifties. Spike jammed them in a pocket. He turned to ask if the man wanted to drive somewhere, and then saw that the bloke already had his flies undone, his half-hard cock sticking out. Spike shrugged and then bent over.

He really was quite talented at this. Angelus had schooled him in the art over a century past, and Spike had kept his hand in—so to speak—over the years, mostly because he actually got off on giving head. A vampire thing, perhaps. Oral fixation. He’d had plenty of opportunity to polish his skills over the past months, not to mention the incentive to bring his johns off as quickly as possible. Besides, he didn’t need to breathe, and that gave him a definite advantage over human cocksuckers.

The mark apparently felt Spike had upheld his end of the bargain, because he drove away with a smile on his face, and his hundred dollars still in Spike’s trousers. Spike climbed back onto the wall.

At two in the morning, Spike was still a hundred and fifty short of his goal and growing worried. Angelus remained in a foul mood over yesterday’s incident with the lawyer, and his response would not be at all kind if Spike didn’t meet his quota. So when a black SUV came to a stop in front of him, he heaved a sigh of relief.

But his relief was short-lived, because the boy who climbed out of the driver’s side and walked toward him didn’t look very promising. He was young, for one thing—it was doubtful that he was even eighteen—and despite the expensive car, he had the look of someone neglected. His hair was too long, his clothes were baggy, and his expression hesitant, as if he half-expected to be hit.

Still, he walked up to Spike and peered at him from under his fringe. “Uh, hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

“Do you, um….” The boy bit at his lip and his face flushed slightly. “Are you a prostitute?” He whispered the last word, although there was nobody near.

Spike thought about pretending to be offended, but then took pity on him. “Yeah, whelp. That I am.”

The boy swallowed audibly. “I…I have some money,” he said.

“Are you looking for some company tonight, then?”

“Yeah, I guess…. Yes.”

Spike hopped down, but still allowed the wall to support his weight. “Is this your first time?”

“No! Well, I mean…I’ve been with girls before, and that was cool, but I kinda wanted to, um….”

“Try something different,” Spike offered.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

The boy nodded, looking grateful. “So, how do we, uh….”

“We begin by negotiating a price, pet.”

“I have two hundred bucks!” the kid blurted.

“All right, not the best negotiating tactic, but we’ll let that slide. And do you know what you want for your hard-earned cash?”

“It’s birthday money,” he mumbled. “And, uh, I’m not sure.” His face was now bright red.

“Tell you what. We’ll go someplace a bit more private, and we’ll play it by ear, yeah?”

“Okay. We could use the back of my Expedition.” He gestured at the truck.

“Nah, pet. Come with me. I’ve got a spot that’s less cramped than that.” He pointed over the wall.

“In a _cemetery_?”

“Yeah, why not? Got a nice little mausoleum, all comfy. You’ll see.”

The boy hesitated for a moment, then, with a determined look on his face, scrambled over the wall. With slightly more difficulty, Spike did likewise, and then led the boy across the neatly kept grounds.

“Why a cemetery, dude?”

Because it’s familiar, Spike could have said. Instead, he answered, “It’s quiet. It doesn’t cost anything. And there are fewer vermin than most cheap motels.”

He’d found this place not long after Angelus had ordered him to sell himself. Over the months he’d brought in a few amenities—a mattress, some blankets—and sometimes, if he managed a night’s earnings early, he’d stay in there for a time, huddled in on himself, imagining himself safe. Now he pushed open the door and ushered the boy inside. He lit some of the thick candles he’d scattered around and, swallowing a moan, collapsed onto the makeshift bed. The boy stood there awkwardly.

“Come sit next to me,” Spike said, patting the mattress. “I won’t bite.”

The boy did, leaving a foot or so of air between them.

Spike held out a hand. “Payment first, pet.”

The boy scrambled to his knees and pulled out a pair of wadded hundreds from his jeans. He handed them over, then sat back down.

“Now, you just relax and let Uncle Spike teach you a thing or two.”

“Is that your name? Spike?”

“You can call me whatever you want. It’s your dime.”

“I’m…I’m Connor.”

Spike smiled. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Connor. Now, how about a kiss to warm us up?”

Connor licked his lips and nodded, then closed his eyes and leaned in close. Spike was about to press his lips to the boy’s when Connor’s eyes flew open and he squawked and flew off the bed. “You’re a fucking vampire!” he yelled.

Bugger. Spike wondered how the boy knew. Perhaps he’d grown up in Sunnydale.

Calmly, without standing, Spike said, “I am. But I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t…I don’t do that anymore.” At least, not until Angelus decides to make me choose between innocents like this and my friends locked in the basement at Wolfram &amp; Hart, he thought.

Connor wasn’t reassured. “You fucking smell like _him_!”

“Like who?” Spike was more than a little confused by this turn in the conversation.

“Like my fa—Like Angel.”

Spike gaped at him. “You know Angel? And how the bloody hell do you know what he smells like?”

“You’re _that_ Spike,” Connor said. “Did Angel send you after me?”

Spike was about to reply with a question of his own, when a memory returned of a conversation he’d had with Angel a long time ago, when he was just past being a ghost and Angel still had a soul. They’d both been drunk at the time, and the tale had been rambling and semi-coherent, but Spike had understood that Angel and Darla—who’d been not dead for a time, but now was again—had somehow managed to procreate, and that their offspring had ended up in an alternate universe where he grew up in the space of months, and then he’d returned to commit various acts of mayhem before Angel somehow got him set up with a human family. It was very confusing, actually.

“Are you Angel’s son?” Spike asked quietly.

Connor took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I guess I am.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Almost a year ago. My folks—my adoptive folks—live in Boulder. I just moved out here for college. Why?”

“Don’t—Whatever you do, for Christ’s sake, don’t let him know you’re near.”

Connor’s brow furrowed, and Spike suddenly saw the family resemblance. “Why?” he demanded.

“He’s lost his soul.”

Connor blinked at him, then, abruptly, sat on the cold granite floor. “How?”

Spike shook his head. “Mojo of some kind. He’s working for these lawyer gits, and they did something to him. Look, you have to believe me. Without the soul he’s an evil—“

“I know what he’s like. I’ve seen him.”

Oh. Apparently the boy had been around for the last little slip. “So you know why you need to go, then. The fact that Angel cares about you…well, that only makes Angelus all the more cruel.” Spike looked away then, staring at a blank gray wall.

“Why are you…. I thought you were another good vamp. Why are you still with him? Why are you doing _this_?” He gestured at the mattress, at the tumbled linens.

“He’s…. He had these friends, yeah? And for a time, they were almost my friends as well. But now he has them locked away, and if I don’t do as he tells me….” His throat became choked and, angrily, he blinked away tears.

“So he whores you out? Why, Spike?”

“To humiliate me, I expect. Because Angel and I….” His voice trailed away.

“Oh,” Connor said. He frowned and then shook his head. “Look, last time there was this witch, and she stuck his soul back in him. You could have her do that again.”

“Tried. But Red’s gone. I tried to track her down, but he found out, and…and I won’t try again.” He shuddered, remembering the sound of Lindsey’s screams as Angelus slowly flayed him. Spike had been chained in the cell with him, forced to watch as the man slowly died from infection and dehydration. It had not been an easy death.

Connor looked at him solemnly. “I’ll dust the son of a bitch.”

“No!” Spike held his hands up in alarm. He wouldn’t be responsible for this boy’s death, too. “I told you, you need to stay away. The resources he has in his hands now…. Look where fighting him got me. And I have nearly a century and a half experience at it!”

“Spike, this can’t just continue. You, the others…. If he’s so powerful now, what else is he planning?”

Spike had thought of this himself, of course. For now, Angelus seemed content to torment his old associates, but sooner or later he’d grow bored and move on. By then Spike would be dust, or completely broken. Useless in either case. “You can’t stop him, Connor. Not by yourself. And I’m in no position to help.”

Connor set his jaw stubbornly, clearly unwilling to listen, and now Spike truly did see his father in him. “I’ll find someone who _can_ help,” Connor said.

 

Spike’s leg mended. He tried to put his conversation with Connor out of his head, because it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on it. But Angelus was becoming increasingly violent and unstable, and Spike suffered several more broken bones over the following weeks, even though he worked hard to meet his escalating quotas. One night Angelus became incensed because Spike stained his new carpet with his own blood, and he dragged Spike, bleeding and naked, to the cells in the basement, and made him watch while he messily hacked off Lorne’s head. Spike knew the injury wasn’t fatal, but it was still ugly to watch, and he knew that next time it might be one of the humans his grandsire took a sword to. Even if he didn’t, the prisoners were looking increasingly emaciated and haggard. Spike wondered how long it would be before they went mad, if they hadn’t already.

But still Spike went out shortly after sundown, and he enticed men to use his mouth and his arse—a dozen or more each night now—and then returned to Wolfram &amp; Hart for another round of pain and degradation. He felt his own will slipping away. It was so much easier just to give in, to not think about what he was doing, to obey.

On a cool spring night he returned to the wall by the cemetery. He’d been avoiding the area, but this night he had several cracked ribs, and he hoped again to earn his money more quickly. He’d been doing fairly well—a faux cowboy had paid him handsomely to allow the man to piss into his mouth—and he hoped he’d only have to turn another trick or two before he stole a few hours of peace in his mausoleum. But a familiar black SUV parked in front of him and he sighed.

“There you are!” Connor said, loping toward him. “I’ve been looking for you for a while, dude!”

“Why? Realized you never got your two hundred dollars’ worth?”

That brought the boy up short. “But… we’re kind of related. I’m almost your uncle. Ew.”

Spike shrugged. “And Angel is my grandsire, and I spent a century shagging my sire. And your mother was your father’s sire, for that matter. Vampires, pet.”

Connor made a face. “But still, ew.”

Spike laughed for what felt like the first time in ages. But his humor vanished when Connor leaned on the wall and peered earnestly at him.

“I found some help,” the boy said.

“I told you—“

“Yeah, I know. I’m not much of a listener, actually. My adopted father says I’m defiant.” He grinned crookedly.

Spike sighed and gave in. In the grand scheme of things, what was one more life on his conscience? “What’d you find, whelp?”

“Not what, who,” Connor replied excitedly. “You were right about Willow, by the way. No sign of her. No sign of Sunnydale, except a big fucking hole.”

“I know. I was there. I made that big fucking hole.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Okay, but I did some detective work. Angelus got his soul to begin with because of a Gypsy curse, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I was thinking, why can’t we just curse him again? Only, it turns out Gypsy curses aren’t so easy to come up with. I mean, maybe if you’re in Romania or something, but my budget only got me as far as San Francisco.”

“And?”

“I have this friend from high school who’s kind of into witchcraft and stuff. I mean, she’s kinda goth and everything, except mostly for real. And her mother is a real witch, I guess, like Willow. So my friend told me about this store up in San Fran, where her mom gets her stuff. It’s like this sort of voodoo bodega place run by a pair of transvestites, actually, but they have some cool stuff. I told them what I was looking for, and one of them gave me _this_.” He dug his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim leather book no bigger than his hand. He held it up so Spike could see the title, which was in Cyrillic.

“Zakleenahnyeeah ee Maglee,” Spike read out loud. “Incantations and Magic.”

“Yup. And it’s got a soul-sticking spell inside, especially intended for naughty demons.”

“Who’s going to cast the spell?” Spike asked.

“Me. They showed me how. I don’t even have to be near him when I do it, as long as I have something that belongs to him.”

Spike was doubtful. “’M not sure I could smuggle anything like that out to you.”

“Actually, um, I was kinda thinking…. You belong to him, don’t you?” He hastened to add, “Don’t worry! The spell won’t hurt you or anything.”

“It sounds too easy.”

Connor scrunched up his face. “Yeah, well, there kinda is one complication.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“He has to take something from the sorcerer’s body—that’d be me—and he has to touch it with his skin.”

“Something from your body? Like what?”

“Fluids. Blood. Spit. Tears.”

Spike thought for a moment, then looked Connor in the eyes. “Semen?” he asked.

Connor blushed. “Uh, yeah.”

Spike sighed. “Then I have a scheme, of sorts.”

 

Angelus was waiting for him tonight, his foot tapping on the floor with dangerous precision. “It’s late, Spikey,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d gone to. Thought maybe you’d finally decided to desert us.” He gestured at the screen. Fred was hunched against one wall, her lips moving steadily as, seemingly, she talked to herself. Wes was crouched in a fetal ball in one corner. Angelus had taken his clothing away and his vertebrae and ribs stood out starkly on his bowed back. Gunn was bashing the back of his head against one wall, slowly, steadily, as if he’d been doing it for hours or perhaps even days. And Lorne, who was back in once piece, was simply staring blankly ahead.

“Was a slow night, Sire,” Spike said meekly. “Took me some time to earn enough.”

“Is LA getting tired of that sweet little ass already?” Angelus smirked. “C’mere. Let me see.”

Spike walked around the big desk. Suddenly, Angelus shot out a hand and grabbed a fistful of Spike’s hair. He used it to drag Spike close to him, and Spike collapsed to his knees in front of Angelus’s chair. “What the fuck did you do to your hair? I didn’t tell you you could cut it. All of this belongs to _me,_ you little shit!” He yanked so viciously Spike nearly feared being scalped, and then Angelus ran his hand roughly over the front of Spike body, tearing his shirt open and then grabbing his cock through the thin denim of his jeans.

Spike yelped. “I know, Sire! It was a john! He’d paid to chain me up, and then he pulled out these scissors—“

Angelus gave him a stinging blow to the jaw, and Spike tasted his own blood.

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear your whining. You’re going to fucking pay for this, William!”

Angelus kicked him in the chest, then hauled him upright and threw him down on his back on the desk. Spike didn’t resist as his clothes were ripped off of him, or as Angelus pulled him up again, turned him around, and then slammed him face-down onto the desktop. Spike felt the cartilage in his nose give and he struggled not to choke on the blood that flooded his throat.

“Stupid fucking _cunt_!” Angelus spat. A moment later there was a whooshing sound, followed by a sharp pain across Spike’s arse. Angelus was beating him with Spike’s own belt, it felt like, and the buckle dug into his skin. Spike grunted and moaned as the blows intensified.

But he wasn’t truly frightened until Angelus threw down the belt—Spike heard it thud on the carpet—and wrapped his hands around Spike’s neck, choking him. He didn’t need to breathe, of course, but it wouldn’t take much more pressure for the wanker to simply snap his head right off.

Spike’s hands pulled uselessly at Angelus’s, and he couldn’t get enough leverage in this position to put up much of a fight. A moment later, though, Angelus kicked Spike’s legs apart and positioned his body between them. He removed one hand, and Spike greedily sucked oxygen into his burning lungs as he heard a zipper being undone.

“Slut,” Angelus growled. Spike felt the blunt head of his grandsire’s cock battering against his abused rectum and then, with a single thrust, it was buried deep inside.

“Whore,” said Angelus. He continued to pin Spike’s neck in place with one hand, while the fingers of his other gouged deep bruises into Spike’s hip. Every time Angelus snapped his hips forward, Spike’s cock and bollocks were pounded into the unforgiving oak of the desk, and he couldn’t stop himself from whimpering in pain.

“Stupid fucking bitch,” grunted Angelus. And then he froze.

Spike didn’t dare to move a muscle as his grandsire’s hold on him slowly loosened. Then, with a terrible howl, the bigger vampire leapt backwards, out of Spike, away, finally crashing to his arse in a heap on the carpet.

Cautiously, Spike unbent, his still-damaged ribs complaining with every movement. He turned and looked at his grandsire, who gaped up at him, his eyes huge and his face a perfect mask of horror.

“Oh, God,” his grandsire whispered. “Oh, God, Spike. What have I done?”

Spike sank to his knees beside Angel and his chin dropped to his chest. He couldn’t talk right now, couldn’t think. He’d never allowed himself to hope this might work, never imagined what he might do if Angel’s soul was restored.

Angel buried his face in his hands and sobbed as if his heart were broken.

Spike lifted his head and looked at him. Considered. Could Spike trust him? Was it worth trying to rebuild whatever fragile…something…they’d once had? Could he manage to give of himself even more so that he could help Angel put himself back together, help mend the harm he’d done to their friends? Did he still love the creature that had shamed and debased him so thoroughly? Could either of them ever get past this?

Spike was still naked, his arse burning with pain. Angel’s trousers were open and his softened cock, wet with Spike’s blood and Connor’s spend, was still sticking out pathetically.

Spike put a hand on Angel’s knee.

“Come on, Sire,” he said gently. “We have some prisoners to free.”

Angel looked at him with eyes red and wet. “Did you…fix me? How?”

Spike decided that the tale that ended with Connor shagging him in a cemetery could wait for another time. “I’ll tell you later.” He stood and held out his hand to Angel. “Let’s go try and set things right first, yeah?”

_\---fin---_


End file.
